Your Mileage May Vary
by I've Been a Labrat
Summary: Charles's son, David, is dealing with a lot right now. Between Lorna introducing him to weird stuff, his parents' divorce, and all the stupid adjusting he has to do, he hasn't exactly had time to breathe. It'd be nice if everyone would shut up for a week so he could relax.


_Well, it appears I've finally surfaced after a long hiatus. I got back into my artistic side after I finished some end-of-the-year work. This jumps around a bit, but mostly stays in chronological order. Hope it amuses._

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><p><strong><em>1.<em> _Robot_**

"Dad, look."

"Dad."

"DAD!"

Charles jolted, whipping his gaze from the sunny afternoon to the boy halfway in his lap, holding a Transformer figure in his face. "Wh… Oh, I see. That's ah…" He frowned. "Optimus Prime?"

David looked for all the world as though he'd like to hit something. "No, stupid, it's Starscream!"

"Don't talk to me that way," he mumbled tiredly, shutting his eyes.

"You don't listen! You don't care!"

The telepath sighed and rubbed his face. "I've been very busy lately, love." His eyes snapped open and fell on the now broken Transformer, David's foot stomping down on it again as he tugged at his wavy blue hair and sniffled, red-faced.

"David," he interrupted hurriedly, before things could get worse, "Come here."

"No."

He opened his arms regardless, and David-regardless-ran into them. "I promise, everything will be better once these papers go through."

"I hate it."

"I know."

_**2. Gold**_

It was how he'd describe Kurt's eyes. They blinked slowly at him across the Monopoly board, three-fingered hand reaching out to roll the dice.

"Give me 500 dollars now."

"Alright. Here."

His fingers didn't touch Kurt's hand as the play money passed between their grips.

"Do vou find me repulsife?" Kurt asked softly, seeming honestly curious.

"What's repulsive?"

"It means disgusting."

"Oh." He shrugged then. He didn't like touching many people, really. Just Dad and Mum and Erik and Lorna and occasionally Clarice or Hank.

"Vour roll."

He jiggled the dice in his hand before releasing them onto the board with a clatter. Pass go, collect 200 dollars. It suited him just fine.

_**3. Stomach**_

He dry-heaved again, head hanging almost into the toilet bowl. Oh, god. He wanted to rip out of his stomach and never eat anything again.

Or just get rid of his telepathy. That'd be nice. Then he wouldn't feel his wife's nausea and have his own stomach revolt as often as hers did. After this, he'd probably seek out every woman whom he'd knocked up and apologize profusely. Then never do it again. He didn't wish this absolute _hell_ on anyone.

Taking ragged breaths as he closed his eyes, leaning back away from the toilet's swirling water, Charles groaned at the knock. "I'm terribly sorry if I offend you, but go away!"

"Are you sure you don't want dramamine and a glass of juice?" A familiar voice called back casually, in a way only _he_ could when faced with a violently puking grown man.

He gladly opened the door and managed a smile for the turtleneck-clad German. "Well, in that case…"

_**4. Hairy**_

"I was talking to my dad and he said I'm really hairy. How hairy are you, Betsy?"

The dark-haired girl shrugged. "Not that much, I don't think. My hair is really long, though." She finished pulling the silky strands back into a ponytail as she spoke, cracking her gum loudly.

David grimaced at the noise and put his hands over his ears, letting himself hear his own pulse and nothing else. When Clarice nudged him with her shoulder, knowing he had to hear her speak since they were absolute _best_ friends, he removed his hands.

"I'm not hairy much because I got most of mine waxed off when I was in Hollywood." She flipped her hair back as she said it, beaming at the assertion. She liked to remind them all that she'd been an actress before her mutation expressed itself. Hollywood wasn't "progressive" enough to let a mutant on camera.

As Lorna and Betsy giggled, asking how much it hurt to get her hair waxed, David unwrapped a stick of gum, folding the rectangle into his mouth to chew. Ripping the velcro strips off his right shoe, he refastened them before ripping again. Rinse and repeat. Dad said it was all about finding what made him feel calmer. This definitely made him calmer. And Lorna's fruit stripe gum-which Peter stole as a gift to his little sister-certainly didn't hurt either.

He chewed with his mouth closed, because Mum said people sounded like cows when they smacked their gum. Plus he hated the noise of cracking it. It jarred him away from any sense of serenity he'd gathered.

"David's hairy, definitely."

"It's 'cause he's a Jew," Betsy giggled. "Same reason you're hairy, Lorna. Your dad was a Jew, wasn't he?"

"Jews are hairy people," Clarice agreed.

Lorna rolled her eyes. "By that logic, the Japanese are all ninjas. You guys are dumb, honestly."

"Aw, come on, Lorna! You know we were just kidding! Weren't we?"

"Yeah, we were just kidding! Besides," Clarice added, grabbing David by the elbow, "David isn't offended. Are you?"

"Um…" He blinked, unsure how to respond. "No?"

"See? Totally not offended! Besides, Lorna, you're not even Jewish, so why do you care?"

"Because stereotyping is wrong, you nitwits." But Lorna only stuck her tongue out and grinned. She didn't stay upset for long.

_**5. Tears**_

He wasn't crying. He wasn't.

But he was. He sniffled as he curled up outside the office door, rubbing at his cheeks. Mum and Dad were fighting. Again. About things he didn't understand-not that he wanted to.

"You would sentence both our children to this life? My God, Charles, what is wrong with you?"

"I am not sentencing them to anything! They won't be involved with the X-Men or anything of the kind!"

"They'll always be in danger because people know how to hurt you! Can you keep nothing a secret? Erik can manage it!"

"Why the hell didn't you marry Erik, then, if you think he does so much of a better job than me?"

"Because I loved you! You are not the man I married!"

"I'm doing my best! Can you say the same? You're always so obsessed with work that you barely see David anymore! Now you want to take him and this child away from their only stable life?"

A loud crash. Like something was broken. Maybe the lamp or something.

"Do _not_ turn this around on me! You are endangering them by having them near you!"

"They are in less danger than they would be if you took them to Paris!"

"They already killed Jean! They tried to kidnap David and now he won't leave the house!"

He flinched, curling into a tighter ball. Deep breaths. Pressure points on his hands. No good. Need more blankets and the microwave puppy. It had corn kernels in a bag that could go in the microwave, then stuffed into a brown dog. He loved perching on the counter to watch it rotate in anticipation of the warmth and comfort it brought. It helped on nights like these when Mum and Dad didn't share a bed and he felt guilty when he crawled in Dad's bed instead of Mum's. He never met her eye at breakfast the mornings after. Too much guilt.

_**6. Raging**_

It was easier, sometimes, to take his anger out on things and people rather than do any exercises he'd been taught.

Unfortunately (or maybe not), his classmates bore the brunt of his frustrations. He'd been kicked out of schools before. Three, actually. His kindergarten in Haifa had told his parents he was not welcome to return. He could see why, really. He wouldn't want some kid back if that kid had drawn blood from biting the teacher and then throwing a chair at a girl who wouldn't stop teasing him.

The second time he got kicked out of school was because he wouldn't do his work. Except he _had tried_, but the teacher was so "busy" helping other kids that he never got any questions answered.

Well, okay, it may have been more than just him not doing his work. It might've been because he threw a fit at not getting any help with math that he smacked the kid next to him and then jumped up on the table to throw colored pencils around the room. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, honestly. It just didn't seem like a good idea in hindsight.

That third time was the real kicker. Mom and Dad had enrolled him in a class made for people with… _conditions_, similar to him. It sort of was okay for a couple weeks. He tried to just ignore the stupid hambeast of a girl who wouldn't quit treating him like dirt. He even made a couple friends. One couldn't control enough muscles to talk, so David may or may not have talked the kid's ear off. The other guy could actually hold a conversation and he was _great_ at playing Dungeons & Dragons which was totally the best game ever.

And then that stupid girl had to ruin everything by poking him in the neck with a pencil. It was what Dad called "the straw that broke the camel's back." Which he had taken to mean he finally got fed up and decided to freak out.

He hit her in the head with a very thick and very heavy science book. He thought, later, that Uncle Hank might've fainted at the fact he'd used a _science_ book to hit her, but he didn't have his reading book on hand or he would've definitely used that since it was way heavier. Anyway, he hit her with the book, and then went "batcrap crazy" and flipped the table. Uncle Erik had referred him to viking tales where table flipping was quite common when venting one's frustration, and then referred him to the Scottish tradition of log throwing.

Dad had sighed and told Uncle Erik to stop encouraging his violent tendencies. As usual.

_**7. Flaming**_

They were huddled up in the various nooks of one of the giant trees in the backyard. David still missed the one in Israel that he grew up climbing. But he'd been forced to adjust to moving, just as he was being forced to adjust to everything else. He was quite sick of adjusting.

The three girls' giggles and the rustling of magazine pages were all he could hear in the immediate area. Farther out, there were laughing students outside for recess like they were.

"What's funny?" David asked, to which the girls replied with loud peals of laughter.

"This!" Clarice finally gasped, shoving the magazine down to his face.

Taking the slick paper into his hands, he blinked in confusion as he stared at the picture. "Perfume?"

"No, no, turn the page!" Betsy corrected, and David glanced up to jump a little at the three hawk-like gazes staring intensely down at him.

"... I don't get it."

"David," Lorna began, exasperated, "_Look_ at him."

"... Him?"

"Oh my _God_!" Betsy screeched, throwing her head back and laughing harder.

"That's a _guy_, David! Dressed like a _girl_!"

"... Oh." David rested his chin in his hand, thoughts occupied even after he gave the magazine back. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the whole thing. A man dressed like a woman. The fact his friends were laughing so hard at it when he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was supposed to be laughing about. Hm.

"Can I have that picture?"

"Um…" Lorna giggled, but the soft sound of paper ripping signaled her compliance, then he was handed the page with the person who he was supposed to laugh at but couldn't figure out why. It was weird. Kind of like the weirdness of how everything was right now.

The picture went up on his wall of fame in the bedroom, among the pictures of Wonder Woman and Sean Connery as James Bond and the Mr. Clean guy and an advertisement for Eggo waffles. The picture fit very well. Right between the Black Power printing Ororo gave him, and the giant movie theater display poster for Back to the Future that Peter stole for him last year.

_**8. Prickly**_

Uncle Sean-gosh, that was still weird, and David didn't think he'd ever get used to it since Uncle Sean wasn't there for the first few years of his life and then suddenly was.

Anyway, Uncle Sean had a new thing in his room. David liked to snoop through people's rooms when they weren't around to tell him to get out. The new thing was a cactus, that much was certain. He'd seen enough photos in National Geographic to know to absolutely never ever freaking touch that thing unless you wanted the worst pain in your life.

He'd already been scarred by that whole telepathy-manifestation-event-thingy when he was six and then by the divorce, he didn't need anymore life scarring from a stupid cactus, thank you very much. He stuck his tongue out at it from the safety of the other side of Uncle Sean's bed, ducking down again to pull a box out from under his bed.

Lifting off the lid, he thought "Score" as he flipped through dozens of comics: Captain America, Avengers, and-

He didn't recognize this, and yet he did. It was what he'd found underneath the pajamas in Uncle Alex's dresser drawer. Different name, though. Uncle Alex had Playboy. This was something else.

David knew for certain a few facts. A) He'd get caught and probably get a smack on his backside for not only going through people's stuff again, but for looking at what he knew was B) Definitely porn. Even though nine year olds shouldn't know what porn was, but for goodness' sake, how was he not supposed to find out with all the grown men in the house? _Dad_ had some, even!

Oddly enough, Uncle Erik didn't have any. Uncle Hank must have porn confused with Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking and science-y stuff because that was all David ever found when he dug through his stuff. Hmph. And they called _David_ the confused one.

Oh, and C) He definitely had to look at the inside because he had to satisfy his curiosity or he'd go nuts. Glancing over his shoulder, he scooted back behind the open closet door and flipped open the page.

Disappointment set in immediately. Breasts… hips… backsides… swimsuits… yawn.

Peter had caught him going through his stuff once, finding his Playboys and flipping through them with all the interest he had watching paint dry on the wall. The speedster had simply told him he'd get into that stuff when he was older.

David highly doubted that. If he wanted to look at a naked girl, he'd go barge in on Lorna or Clarice or his mother. But he didn't, and plus, he'd been told that barging in on someone in the bathroom was very rude, so he tried not to do it. Except when he had to pee. All bets were off when he had to pee.

_**9. Broken**_

"Uncle Erik!" David screeched as he thundered through the house, oblivious to Professor Yoshida yelling at him to get back here. He grasped the doorknob to Uncle Erik's classroom and shoved all his weight against the door to open it, stumbling in and gasping after having run so far. "Uncle Erik!"

The tall man seemed unfazed by the interruption, continuing to lecture to the high school students who were gaping at him and oblivious to the fact Erik was still lecturing. He reached a casual hand out, calling the Walkman to his hand and fiddling with the metal without taking his eyes off the class. The device plopped back into David's hands just as Professor Yoshida found him and yanked him back out of the room, door shutting behind them.

He didn't care about his teacher's lecture as he was unceremoniously dragged back to class, grinning at his now functioning Walkman. Slipping the headphones on and replaying the tape Clarice lent him, he let Salt 'n' Pepa tell him to "push it"-though what he was supposed to be pushing, he had yet to figure out. Oh well.

_**10. Strawberries**_

"Why do they have seeds all on them?" David asked at his perch in a dining room chair. Everyone was eating breakfast, and Mom was, blissfully, absent due to a conference in Reykjavik. Her work went "whoosh" over his head because he just didn't care about it.

"You know, I don't know," his father answered. "I never learned it, I suppose."

David groaned, knowing the next words out of his father's mouth would be something like "Why don't you research that?"

"Don't sound so excited."

He promptly snapped his gaze back to his father, blinking slowly and trying to figure out where his father had gotten "excited" from his frustration.

"Sarcasm, love."

Oh. "You know I hate that."

"Force of habit. Blame Erik for feeding the flames."

Right. Uncle Erik was the bane of his existence sometimes, since he was probably the Pope of sarcasm. He had a "sarcasm" sign to hold up before David had a chance to question anything he said… which was 99% of it, he was _sure_.

_**11. Scratchy**_

As much as he hated menial tasks and preferred going from thing to thing depending on his mood, he didn't mind this so much.

Rubbing the tiny sandpaper square over the edge of the wood piece to finish smoothing it out, he nodded in satisfaction and moved onto the next piece.

David grimaced when he accidentally scraped the square over his nail, gritting his teeth and sucking in a breath. Dropping the sandpaper, he wrung his hand and shook his head to get rid of the building emotions. It was just sandpaper. He had to use it to sand the pieces to his dragon puzzle. Suck it up.

He was getting better and "talking himself down from the ledge," he had to admit. Dad beamed every time he noticed a hint of progress. Didn't seem like much, but David supposed it was better than curling up in his closet and crying until someone came to rescue him. Now, sometimes he could just shut up and keep going. Depended on how badly he wanted something, though. Like the dragon puzzle. _That_ was going to be awesome when it was finished.

_**12. Work**_

He would rather jump out that window over there than do anything set in front of him.

He hated math. He was terrible at it, contrary to all the stereotypes spread about what a school principal had called "his kind."

Or maybe if he hit his head hard enough on the table, he'd get a concussion and get sent out of class. Dad would be wise to what he'd done, but he couldn't get a talking-to when he was hurt with a concussion.

Meh. It would hurt for a while and he might end up permanently mucking something up. Maybe not a concussion. He was unable to contain an exasperated groan before allowing his head to flop down to smack on the table in front of him.

Closing his eyes, he heard Professor Moonstar approach, and couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't want to be a bad kid, per se, but how was he expected to behave when he was given stuff he couldn't do?

When he lifted his head in response to his teacher's urging, he looked her straight in the eye and tore the photo-copied worksheet in half. Lectures be damned. Also ban on curse words be damned.

_**13. Parmesan**_

Angel's Pizza. Best freaking pizza ever. It even beat Pizza Hut, much as he loved Pizza Hut.

He could eat pizza for every meal (except breakfast, that was sacrilege), every single day of every single week for the rest of his life. He _loved_ pizza.

Cheese was also amazing and the best thing ever invented. Which was why he had screwed the cap off the container of parmesan in order to dump most of it over his four pieces.

"David, if there is ever a cheese shortage in the world, you will be the prime suspect."

He grinned at his father before taking a huge gooey and powdery bite. Ah, bliss.

_**14. Spiral**_

"I don't get it."

"You don't get anything," Betsy sighed.

"Shut up," Clarice snapped, casting a glance at David to show her support.

"If all of you don't shut up, then I'm not going to do this," Lorna threatened, and they all quieted.

"So what does it do?"

Lorna huffed. "David, I explained this a billion times. You predict your future with this."

"... Can't you just ask Destiny to do it for you?"

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"David, shut up before you embarrass yourself more."

"Oh."

Finishing the spiral, Lorna passed the paper to Betsy, answered with a moan.

"This sucks!"

"Tell me about it. It said I'll end up with kids."

"You hate kids!"

"I know, right?"

"Will I end up with kids?"

"No, 'cause you're a spaz."

"Lorna, I'm gonna kick you in the boob if you don't shut up!"

"Well he _is_!"

"I kinda am, Clarice."

"David, stay out of this!"

"Uh… okay?"

_**15. Exotic**_

"You're gross," David mumbled from the backseat, gloved hands gripping his Chewbacca action figure as he glowered at Ororo and Scott swapping saliva in the front.

"Why are you here, again?" Ororo asked, pulling away to look at him.

"'Cause Dad said, as my sister, you have to watch me while he's busy paying the lawyer to fight dirty against Mom so he can have custody instead of her."

Scott cleared his throat awkwardly. "David, it's not that I don't enjoy your company and your… brutal honesty, but…" He made an uncertain face. "I'm not sure why you can't… stay with… you know…"

"Uncle Erik's in Moscow, Uncle Hank's busy banging Aunt Marion-"

Ororo burst out laughing, Scott's face turning redder than David had ever seen in real life as they both turned to face the front. "He can stay. He's a pain, but he's also a riot."

"I'm not certain 'riot' is the word I'd use," Scott mumbled, coughing as he gripped the steering wheel and drove down the gravel path away from the manor.

"Can we get pizza?"

"You just had dinner," Ororo protested.

"But-"

"If you don't act like a miniature toolbelt, then sure, we can get pizza in a couple hours."

"Toolbelt?"

"Douchebag, asswipe, tool, D-bag, etc."

"Oh. So… like Uncle Alex?"

"He's not-"

"You know he is," Ororo interrupted the brunet.

"He's not _that_ bad…"

"He is _that_ bad," David replied, earning a snort of amusement from Ororo.

_**16. Fat**_

"Mom's really fat," David muttered to his father at the table. They were at an outdoor cafe, on one of those fewer and fewer occasions where they all acted like they didn't hate each other. Dad and Mom hated each other, David hated both of them, and the as-of-yet-non-existent baby had no opinion on anything because it had no brain.

Divorces did that. Made people hate each other and everyone else and dogs and flowers and the world.

"Please try not to say anything," Charles hushed him quietly as Gabrielle approached, sitting down at the table.

They barely even made an effort to smile. Except David. He never pretended. Why bother pretending when everyone was mad and acting stupid and going their separate ways?

"Mom, you're really fat."

His father's hand smacking to his forehead was audible, but David could hardly care. Sparing people's feelings was hardly his forté, and hardly something he cared about these days. Mom and Dad certainly hadn't spared any of _his_ feelings these past months, between this ridiculous thought of a _baby_ and then a bloody _divorce_.

He envied Lorna her happy little life with Uncle Erik and her brother named Peter. There was no one to have a new baby and no one to get divorced. It sounded miles better than this.

_**17. Gleaming**_

"Holy cow," Clarice breathed as they stepped inside the mall. "This is even better than I thought!"

"I think it's better 'cause we don't have the 'rents breathing down our necks this time."

"They're not our parents," Lorna replied.

"They sure act like it."

"I guess so."

"Hey, where's David?"

"Oh, shit, we fucking lost him."

"Jesus, Clarice, sailor-mouth, much?"

"Let's _go_," Lorna yelped, running in the direction of the Radio Shack. That might be the best place to check. The other two stormed after her, eyes darting every which way in search of their blue-haired companion.

David snickered as he watched them go from behind a kiosk with scarves, then merrily ambled away. He had no intention of staying with them for the next two hours. They had grown bland in his eyes, boring as a group of people would get after spending the past five years or more with them. Hmph.

Plus, he really needed the distraction. School was dragging him down, as was the almost-ready baby brother, and the almost finalized divorce. They just had to smooth out the wrinkle called "child custody" and they'd be set. It was sending huge earthquakes through his foundation, making him stumble wildly when at home.

He intended to enjoy this. And by enjoy this, he meant go see a movie. Trouble was, he couldn't decide between seeing a Disney mouse Sherlock Holmes, or some guy named Ferris Bueller having a day off.

Then again… Ferris Bueller was rated PG-13…

He'd be naughty. He'd see what all the hype was about. Leave the Great Mouse Detective for the babies. He was officially in the double digits, the big 1-0. He was going to march up to the ticket counter, trick everyone into thinking he was thirteen, stuff his face with popcorn, and go enjoy himself since the house was his least favorite place right now. It'd be great.

_**18. Number**_

"Now, David, I know this is difficult for you, but you need to try to tell people how you feel."

"No thanks."

"I'm sorry?"

"You're not forgiven."

"David-"

"Mr. Xavier, if you could please remain quiet." The woman leaned forward. "David, how do you feel right now?"

"Like I want to bail out that window."

"Why is that? Is it because of this huge event in your life?"

"No."

"No?"

"No. I want to throw myself through a window because my brains exploding on the sidewalk is better than you asking me questions any moron could figure out on their own."

He could feel his parents' pride and chagrin mixed together in the back of his head, and could also feel his father straining not to laugh. It made this whole thing slightly less painful.

_**19. Old**_

"I'm getting a brother," David mumbled, drawing his knees up and resting his chin atop.

Lorna grabbed the laces of her shoe, beginning the process of tying them. "Bummer."

"What's it like?"

She shrugged, blowing a few green wisps of hair from her face. "I don't know. They're real dumb, so you gotta be patient. And they like to bug you about everything."

David grimaced and clenched his fists. "I don't want a brother."

"Oh, they're not so bad all the time. They can be fun when they get stuff for you and don't tell on you to anyone when you do something bad." Lorna grinned. "If he's anything like Peter, he can take you anywhere in the world in a few minutes, no hassle."

"Clarice can do that already," David replied irritably, disliking this up and coming brother the more he thought about it.

"Might as well get used to it." Lorna shrugged again. "Can't do much about it once he's not just a twinkle in your dad's eye anymore."

"Huh?"

"Something I heard Alex say. You'll understand when you're older."

Then she patted his head, and David had to resist the urge not to smack her hand away or bite her arm off. Of all people, _she_ had to be the one to patronize him. Sigh.

_**20. Speak**_

"Why won't he talk?"

"He's not capable of language yet."

"His brain works and he can scream a hell of a lot."

"Watch your mouth."

"_Dad_."

"Newborns cannot speak. We can teach him sign language so he can talk earlier than when he masters speaking words."

"What's the point of him being here if I can't talk to him?"

"Your brother does not exist solely for your amusement."

"Then what the hell did you and Mom have him for?"

Charles rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly and let out a very long sigh.

_**21. Frigid**_

"Why _can't_ he go outside with me?"

"It's too cold for him. When he's a bit older, we can bundle him up and let him outside for a few minutes."

"He's so _boring_," David moaned, flopping into the big leather armchair and putting his socked feet on the ottoman.

"You can go outside if you like," Charles replied, rocking the baby.

"No, all your stupid _older_ students are being jerks and throwing snowballs at everybody. And you said that attacking people should not be used to solve my problems."

"I'm afraid teenagers have a tendency to be jerks." Shifting Nicholas in his arm, he glanced up at David. "What?"

The boy narrowed his eyes. "He's useless. All he does is stink up the place and make noise and puke on people and-"

"I'm quite aware of his bodily functions." The telepath sighed. "He's a baby. Babies don't do much of anything until they're older."

"Don't we have somebody here who can make him older now?"

"Paul, yes, but I'm not having him make your brother older simply so you can be amused."

"Do you care about me at all?"

"I should say so, considering I searched high and low for that one specific Black Panther comic you _insisted_ on having."

David huffed and smacked his hand on the leather, startling the baby into howling, which only had David releasing a guttural cry of anger before he irritably stormed out.

_**22. Deprived**_

David sighed as he slipped into the classroom, watching as Erik smoothly moved about the room, cleaning things up. "Uncle Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Can we move back to Germany?"

"... Why?" Erik turned, casting him a funny look.

"I hate it here." He toed the floor with his sneaker, rubbing his arm and not meeting Erik's eyes. He knew he shouldn't be saying that. But he couldn't help how he felt.

"Hm," Erik responded neutrally, tossing a wad of paper in the trash before approaching him. "Is your father not spending enough time with you?"

Shaking his head, he started, "He's always paying attention to my stupid brother."

"Well, unfortunately, infants need more attention. They're very useless and needy creatures." As he spoke, he put a hand to David's back and guided him out of the room.

"I don't get why he had to… be born, I guess."

"There are some ethics to it that I would explain, but it might be better you learn of it when you're older and less innocent."

"That bad?"

"Mm." Erik looked down at him. "Have I introduced you to wood whittling?"

"Huh?"

"It might keep your mind off your father while I talk to him."

"What does it _do_?"

"You carve wood into a shape."

He couldn't help but perk up immediately at that. Anything involving art, and he was all over that. Lawyers and psychiatrists and doctors and math people didn't touch art. It wasn't tainted by their existence like the rest of his life was.

_**23. Sickly**_

"He has an ear infection."

"I meant besides that."

"What do you mean?"

"Can't you just read my mind?"

"I'm not going to let you ever rely on that for communication. Like I told you when you were little: Use your words."

David sighed, rolling his eyes, but complied as he crossed his arms. "I meant because he looks weird."

"It's more a mutation than anything," his father replied, adjusting Nickie on his lap as the toddler squirmed and whined. "Albinism. It's quite fascinating, actually. I've never met a person with this mutation in real life until your brother. Though," he added, "the photosensitivity is an unfortunate and unrelated condition."

"He looks ridiculous."

"How do you think he feels, seeing the world through goggles?"

"Probably hates his life. Or that could just be the ear infection."

"That too. Nickie, hold _still_."

"No!" Nickie cried, "no" being the only word he'd chosen to utter since he first spoke it at a few months old. It was to the endless frustration of Charles, who knew he was damn well capable of speaking far more words, and yet the toddler refused.

David smirked. "Well, guess I'll leave you to dealing with Mr. No. Don't call me if you need something."

"Don't be a brat," Charles scolded. "It's not as though I ask you to do chores every moment like Cinderella."

"Yeah, yeah."

_**24. Fire**_

"Don't touch that. Ever. You'll wish you were never born." David pointed at the crackling fire again for emphasis, sure that Nickie's eyes were tracking his every movement behind those thick goggles. Hmph. Maybe Scott could finally have someone who really knew what it was like to have to wear shades inside and have everyone think you're an idiot or just a D-bag.

He settled down next to the small boy, who he had to admit wasn't all bad. Kinda cute. Cute in the way a puppy is cute, until it shits in the floor and starts making noise and chewing on everything. But puppies didn't wear feetie pajamas, which David was jealous of because he'd grown out of them years ago and Nickie got his hand-me-downs.

Heh. Well, at least _he_ got new stuff. Nickie just got cast-offs. Poor kid never had a chance. If he complained when he got older, David would probably laugh in his face.

Glancing down at Nickie, who met his gaze, he sighed. "Don't ever call me Dave. Dad would get mad at me for punching you in the face, even if you would've deserved it. Don't _ever_ call me Dave."

Nickie gurgled in response and clapped his hands together.

"Jesus," David muttered in disappointment.

_**25. Short**_

"Can we cut this short?"

"David, we have an hour and a half left."

"Kill me now." He slumped down on the couch, wishing he were home and stuffing his face with pizza.

"Have you talked to your mother recently?"

"Nope."

The psychiatrist frowned. "I advised you in our last session to make contact with her again. Reconciliation is an enormous step to moving past grief."

"Are you serious? I'm not grieving, woman," David snapped. "How did you even get a license to do this stuff? I hate my mother and never want to talk to her again. How hard is that to understand? Du sprechen sie Deutsch? Habla usted Ingles?" He clenched his fists.

"Er…"

"Oh, and do go ahead and feel offended, because even though we've been doing this since I was nine, I still used the formal form of 'you' instead of the familiar."

"David, there is no need to have an outburst."

"Do you understand what I even have going on in my brain? You _know_ I have a condition! You know my parents are divorced, I hate my mom, and I dropped out of school!"

The psychiatrist was silent for a long moment before she quietly asked, "Would you like me to call your father?"

"YES!" David snarled, fuming as he stood in the middle of the room.

_**26. Tall**_

"Halla," Nickie said slowly, pointing up at David, who stood over him.

"Márië," the teen responded, smiling a little. "You learn fast."

Nickie smiled back. "I try."

David turned away, sighing. He'd been clingy to his brother. It was how he got through the day sometimes. He missed Clarice terribly, but she was abroad doing fashion and acting and singing and everything she'd always wanted.

He just hadn't ever thought it'd become real and that she'd leave.

"David."

"What?"

"Um…"

"Speak."

"Uh… I uh…"

"What did I tell you about mentioning her?"

"I know, but-"

"I hate her. You know I do. Why do you bring her up?"

Nickie hung his head, and David realized he'd screwed up. Again. "I miss her."

"... I know."

The small boy scrubbed at the tears dripping down his face. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay." And then he wrapped Nickie in his arms, because he knew the need for a hug when things got to be too much to handle alone.

_**27. Thin**_

"Why's everybody skinny?" Nickie whispered.

"They're anorexic bitches," David replied. "Ow!" He rubbed the back of his head, glaring at Lorna, who returned it.

"That shouldn't be used as an insult."

"Yeah, well, neither should most of the things people say."

"Anorexic?"

"It's an eating disorder that makes you want to starve yourself because you see yourself as overweight no matter how thin you really are," Lorna explained.

"Uh oh."

"Bulimia's where you puke everything you eat," David added.

"David, hush and quit making things worse."

"It's what I do best."

"Well aware." Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she gestured for them to leave.

"Tell me why you still do dancing even though you're in college?"

"It feeds the soul. Plus, it burns so many calories, I can eat a whole pizza and not feel ashamed."

"No shame in accomplishing that kind of feat."

"I can put my fist in my mouth," Nickie piped in.

"... That's… exciting."

"Yeah," Lorna added, trying not to laugh, "Very impressive."

Nickie beamed.

_**28. Ink**_

"So what made you decide to become a lawyer?"

"... I don't know."

"You and I both know that's not true. You know everything that goes on inside your head."

David stopped, hand still clasped in Clarice's. "I… I got tired of it."

"Of what?"

"Everything. My dad gets treated like shit because he can't walk. I get treated like shit because I'm clinically… something. Nickie gets treated the same, except because he looks different. All of us, mutants, aren't treated like people because we have powers the humans don't."

"You know… you're kinda noble for a guy who used to scream at people for using his bubble soap without asking."

He laughed quietly, just a little. "Guess I've come a long way, haven't I?"

"Meanwhile, I'm still the same vapid bitch you always knew and loved."

"I wouldn't say you're a bitch, per se."

Clarice playfully smacked his arm, not deterring his grin. "You're still a brat."

"Some things never change."

_**29. Metal**_

"David! Wake up! David! David! Wake upppp!"

David groaned, putting an arm over his face to shield himself from the onslaught of Nickie's face and the rank morning breath. "Shhhh."

"Dad said I can't wake him up early."

"So you wake _me_ up instead?"

"Yep!"

"I hate you."

"No you don't," Nickie replied in a sing-song voice.

"Pretty sure I do," David mumbled. "Are there any emergencies?"

"Nope."

"Then get under the blankets and shut up for another hour."

"But-"

"I'm giving you my blessing of being within a couple inches of me. It's rare."

"_Fiiiine_," Nickie sighed, clambering under the covers.

"Don't kick me."

"I don't kick!"

"You do nothing _but_ kick," the teenager muttered sleepily, already dozing off. This was probably better than college. At least here, he could get his half-roommate to shut up and go back to sleep. College roommate would probably be hell to deal with. Yeah, home was great.

_**30. Snow**_

He held his head in his hands, leaning on the desk and moaning lowly. Should he do it? Or should he just continue as he had for the past several years?

The phone was sitting there on the desk, moved from out in the hallway since he wanted some privacy to do this.

If he could go through with it.

Lifting his head, David looked out the window at the slowly falling white flakes before glaring at the phone. It was taunting him. He couldn't call her. Couldn't admit to himself that he missed her.

Except he wanted to be honest, finally. He wanted to talk to her again and admit he missed her terribly even though he'd been angry for so long and frankly still was.

He had little idea what he was doing until he stopped again, hand gripping the receiver as his finger hovered over the buttons. Just a few presses and he'd be connecting to her so far away.

She picked up on the second ring, something that had always driven him batty as a child since he liked to wait three rings before picking up.

"Hello?"

"... Hi, Mom."


End file.
